Whether fhould claim the tribute of his heart,
The Patron's bounty, or the Poet's art.
Alike with wonder and delight we view'd
The Roman genius in thy verfe renew'd:
We faw thee raife foft Ovid's amorous fire,
And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre:
We faw new gall imbitter Juvenal's pen,
And crabbed Perfeus made politely plain :
Virgil alone was thought too great a task ;
What you could scarce perform, or we durst ask :
A tak! which Waller's Mufe could ne'er engage;
A task too hard for Denham's stronger rage:
Sure of fuccefs they fome flight fallies try'd,
But the fenc'd coaft their bold attempts defy'd.
With fear their o'er-match'd forces back they drew,
Quitted the province Fate referv'd for you.
In vain thus Philip did the Perfians storm;
A work his fon was deftin'd to perform.
"O had Rofcommon liv'd to hail the day,
"And fing loud Pæans through the crowded way;
"When you in Roman majesty appear,
"Which none know better, and none come fo near :'
The happy author would with wonder fee,
His rules were only prophecies of thee :
And were he now to give tranflators light,
He'd bid them only read thy work, and write.
For this great task our loud applause is due ;
We own old favours, but must press for new :
Th' expecting world demands one labour more;
And thy lov'd Homer does thy aid implore,
To right his injur'd works, and fet them free
From the lewd rhymes of groveling Ogleby.
Then fhall his verse in grateful pomp appear,
Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar;
On thofe Greek cities we fhall look with fcorn,
And in our Britain think the Poet born.
WE read, how dreams and visions heretofore
The Prophet and the Poet could inspire ;
And make them in unufual rapture foar,
With rage divine, and with poetic fire.
O could I find it now ;--- -Would Virgil's fhade But for a while vouchfafe to bear the light;
To grace my numbers, and that Mufe to aid, Who fings the Poet that has done him right.
It long has been this facred Author's fate,
To lie at every dull Translator's will;
Long, long his Muse has groan'd beneath the weight Of mangling Ogleby's prefumptuous quill.
Dryden, at laft, in his defence arose;
The father now is righted by the fon :
And while his Mufe endeavours to difclofe That Poet's beauties, the declares her own.
In your smooth, pompous numbers dreft, each line, Each thought, betrays fuch a majestic touch;
He could not, had he finish'd his design, Have wish'd it better, or have done fo much.
You, like his Hero, though yourself were free ;
And disentangled from the war of wit;
You, who secure might other dangers fee, And fafe from all malicious cenfures fit.
Yet because facred Virgil's noble Mufe,
O'erlay'd by fools, was ready to expire:
To risk your fame again, you boldly chufe,
Or to redeem, or perish with your fire.
Ev'n first and laft, we owe him half to you, For that his Æneids mifs'd their threatned fate, Was---that his friends by fome prediction knew, Hereafter, who correcting should translate.
But hold, my Mufe, thy needlefs flight reftrain,
Unlefs, like him, thou couldft a verfe indite :
To think his fancy to describe is vain,
Since nothing can difcover light, but light.
'Tis want of genius that does more deny : 'Tis fear my praife should make your glory lefs. And therefore, like the modeft Painter, I Muft draw the veil, where I cannot exprefs.
To MR. DRYDE N.
NO undifputed Monarch govern'd yet
With univerfal fway the realms of wit;
Nature could never fuch expence afford;
Each feveral province own'd a feveral lord.
A Poet then had his poetic wife,
One Mufe embrac'd, and married for his life.
By the stale thing his appetite was cloy'd,
His fancy leffen'd, and his fire destroy'd.
But nature grown extravagantly kind,
With all her treasures did adorn your mind.
The different powers were then united found,
And you Wit's univerfal monarch crown'd.
Your mighty fway your great defert fecures,
And every Muse and every Grace is yours,
To none confin'd, by turns you all enjoy,
Sated with this, you to another fly.
So Sultan-like in your feraglio ftand,
While withing Mufes wait for your command.
Thus no decay, no want of vigour find,
Sublime your fancy, boundless is your mind.
Not all the blafts of time can do you wrong;
Young, fpite of age; in fpite of weakness, strong.
Time, like Alcides, ftrikes you to the ground:
You, like Antæus, from each fall rebound.
IS faid that Phidias gave fuch living grace
To the carv'd image of a beauteous face,
That the cold marble might even seem to be
The life; and the true life, the imagery.
You pafs'd that artift, Sir, and all his powers,
Making the beft of Roman Poets ours;
With fuch effect, we know not which to call
The imitation, which th' original.
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